With deliberate grace, Commander Kisa rose into the sky, defying gravity with an ease that made it seem as if the very air had become as solid as the earth beneath his feet. Each step he took was a marvel, covering vast distances in the blink of an eye, as though the atmosphere itself conspired to endow him with extraordinary swiftness.
He did not linger in his celestial ascent and soon reached the ranks of his battalion, which teetered on the edge of collapse and flight. Upon his arrival, he remained silent; yet a formidable wave of cultivation surged from his being, sweeping over his troops like a tempest. This invisible force ceased their retreat, instilling within them a newfound strength and conviction that ignited their spirits, chasing away the tendrils of dread that had taken root. Their faces still bore the signs of wear and sleep deprivation, but the paralyzing fear that had once clouded their eyes had dissolved into nothingness. With their morale restored, they grasped their weapons with renewed vigor and turned to face the town of Tiriba, ready to stand their ground with unwavering tenacity.
Commander Kisa continued his journey through the skies, moving with purpose and an air of inevitability. He approached the walls of Tiriba, and there, with only a few strides separating him from the ramparts, he came to a standstill. Although it appeared that he could effortlessly advance over the barrier with but a single step, he chose to pause. His eyes, a lineage marker of the Wilberforce, began to emit a rich, brown glow, signaling the activation of an extraordinary ability—one reserved for the elite among the King's Legion. This power granted him vision beyond the ordinary, allowing him to discern the enigmatic nature of the smoke that curled and twisted through the air around him.
His hand moved with a speed that defied comprehension, drawing his sword and raising it aloft in one fluid, seamless motion. Then, with all the precision of a master swordsman, he struck out at the space before him. The sequence was so swift and so precise that the majority of soldiers amid the fray could not follow the movements; they only caught the aftermath—a brilliant surge of light that followed the strike, all of which transpired within the space of a mere second.
It was only those of exceptional cultivation within Tiriba—figures like Prince Armad, Sulaini, and Nusi—who were capable of perceiving the event in its entirety. The Kings, too, with their elevated status and powers, could apprehend the swift actions of the commander. But for the rank-and-file soldiers who filled the battlefield, there was only the mysterious flash of light to observe.
This radiant burst that emerged from the commander's blade arced toward the town of Tiriba, illuminating the sky before detonating in a spectacular display. The explosion was a thing of beauty, a cascade of luminous energy that seemed to herald the onset of something momentous.
Commander Silaini, discerning the trajectory of the light, readied himself for a confrontation. With the poise of a seasoned warrior, he positioned his blade to counter what he initially believed to be an incoming 'Moving sword strike.' Yet, as the light drew near, a realization dawned upon him—a revelation that halted his advance. The light bore no malice, and carried no destructive intent; it was not an assault but something else entirely, something that required understanding rather than opposition.
Despite every effort by Commander Silaini to extinguish the pervasive light, his attempts proved futile. With each strike of his sword, the light would momentarily engage with the blade, only to scatter into the air like a burst of ethereal dust. The light’s persistence was as confounding as it was relentless, yet it eventually dissipated into the surrounding chaos of battle. But Commander Silaini, unfazed by the light’s enigmatic nature, raised his weapon once more. With determined precision, he executed a series of five powerful strikes into the air—arcs of steel that seemed to slice through the very fabric of the atmosphere. Upon completing his fifth strike, he halted abruptly, his steely gaze meeting that of Commander Kisa.
There stood Commander Kisa, his eyes filled with contempt as he looked upon Silaini. Despite their shared rank, the chasm between their origins could not have been more pronounced. Commander Kisa, a scion of the prestigious Wilberforce lineage, served in the elite ranks of the king’s legion. In stark contrast, Silaini’s past was rooted in the humble beginnings of a gardener who had once tended to the royal gardens of the king’s late wife. Now, he stood as a guardian to her son, a legacy born not of blood or title, but of loyalty and duty. This difference in pedigree fed Commander Kisa’s arrogance, fueling his belief in his inherent superiority over the former gardener.
As the two commanders faced off, with sparks of animosity igniting between them, the battlefield itself began to stir with an enigmatic occurrence. The smoke that had once blanketed the war-torn landscape had yet to fully disperse. It seemed as though the trees, witnesses to the unfolding carnage, continued to exhale a mysterious vapor. Just as the smoke threatened to envelop the scene once more, it unexplainably vanished into thin air.
Nusi, who had been watching the events unfold, now wore an expression of puzzlement and concern. It was clear that the smoke still billowed forth from the trees, yet the moment it touched the air, it reverted to a state of purity, indistinguishable from the atmosphere itself. Though such a transformation might leave ordinary observers none the wiser, Nusi knew all too well the true nature of the concoction she had created. This was no ordinary smoke; it was an alchemical mixture crafted to lull its victims into a deep slumber, a dense and colored fog, unlike the transparent air it mimicked. However, it seemed that the luminescence unleashed by Commander Silaini’s swordplay had the power to dissect the smoke, severing its soporific properties and rendering it as innocuous as the air it resembled.
The revelation left Nusi with her mouth agape, her mind reeling from the implications. Not once in the two timeframes within which lived did she encounter or even hear tales of swordsmanship so refined, that it could dissect intangibles like smoke. And smoke, after all, was merely a subset of air. Could it be conceivable that Kisa’s blade could cleave through the air itself? But perhaps the most perplexing question that gnawed at her was how Commander Kisa had managed to unearth the secret of her mystical smoke—how had he discerned its nature and, more impressively, how had he devised a skill to counteract it so effectively? These questions swirled in Nusi’s mind, as the reality of what she witnessed challenged the limits of her understanding and the boundaries of her world.
“The Eyes of Wilberforce, the skill of the Kilebayans,” Commander Silaini uttered with a mix of reverence and concern. These ancient and potent abilities had just manifested before him, wielded by none other than Kisa Wilberforce, whose expertise in battle was becoming alarmingly evident. Silaini was the first to discern the utilization of this formidable skill during Kisa’s latest strategic assault, a feat not easily accomplished.
The Kilebayan's skill is a prestigious art, jealously guarded and exclusively mastered by those within the ranks of the King’s Legion. This elite group, sworn to the service of the crown, possesses the mystical capability to peer into the very essence of their adversaries’ skill. The Eyes of Wilberforce, when combined with the Kilebayan's insight, grant the user an unparalleled advantage—no skill is too arcane or mighty to be dissected and understood. Once revealed, the secrets of an enemy’s power can be systematically dismantled, their skills neutralized by the Legion’s unyielding swords, leaving their foes defenseless and demoralized.
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Caught in deep contemplation, Armand felt the gravity of his predicament. To challenge the King’s Legion—a force that even at its fringes wielded such game-changing powers—meant that he, too, required abilities that were not just unique, but overwhelmingly potent. Commander Kisa was merely one of the legion’s many, not even of high rank, yet his mastery of the Kilebayan's skill had the potential to decisively alter the outcome of a skirmish. Armad believed that victory could have been theirs, for their opponents were already crippled by a loss of morale, teetering on the brink of collapse because the psychological scars left by the enigmatic smoke, conjured by Nusi's skill, would linger in their minds, a haunting reminder that would sap their courage in any future engagements.
However, Commander Kisa had invoked the Kilebayan skill—a secret art known only to the King’s Legion—to restore their embattled spirits. Even among his kind, Commander Silaini, who shared the blood of the Wilberforce tribe, could not access this exclusive skill. Only those who had climbed the ranks to the esteemed position of Commander within the Legion were permitted such a privilege. Of all the legionnaires assigned to Armand’s defense, only Kisa held the key to this arcane knowledge.
Commander Silaini’s countenance turned grim, and his eyes betrayed a glint of steely determination. The realization that Commander Kisa might have perfected the Kilebayan's skill to its fullest extent was daunting. Despite this, Silaini clung to a sliver of hope that perhaps Kisa’s mastery was not absolute. Nevertheless, he knew the stark truth that within his battalion, there was no warrior capable of withstanding Kisa’s might—except for Silaini himself. It was clear that the burden of combat would fall upon his shoulders, and he would have to draw upon every reserve of strength and strategy to face the formidable Commander Kisa in the battles to come.
In the tense moments leading up to his critical confrontation with Commander Kisa, Commander Silaini’s thoughts turn to the energy-boosting pills that his prince had once given him. The source of his anxiety isn’t the impending battle itself, but rather the formidable talents of the Kilebayans, which Kisa, like other commanders of the King’s Legion, wields with deadly proficiency. These unique skills are a game-changer on the battlefield, enabling the King’s Legion commanders to fight with unparalleled endurance. With the Kilebayans’ methods, they can engage in combat for extended periods—up to five or ten hours—without depleting their cultivation power, a stark contrast to other cultivators of their rank who might last only an hour.
To illustrate the power of the Kilebayan skills, consider the recent incident where a commander effortlessly neutralized an attack of smoke by Nusi. The skill required a mere 100 years of cultivation energy. Without the Kilebayan advantage, a commander would have had to exhaust an exorbitant 2,000 years of cultivation energy, and even then, the outcome might have been uncertain. The Kilebayan skill not only allows for the conservation of energy but also a more effective counter to the enemy’s tactics, especially when the secret behind their skills is known. This insight into an adversary’s skill can prolong a commander’s presence in the fray, giving them a strategic edge to outlast their opponents.
Even Commander Silaini, a fearsome warrior from the Wilberforce tribe, acknowledged the uncertainty of his capacity to persist in a protracted duel with Kisa. The King’s Legion’s proficiency with their skills posed a significant threat, one that could very well determine the outcome of their clash.
The energy booster pills were now at the forefront of Silaini’s mind for a good reason. If the pills could use them as effectively as Commander Kisa’s Kilebayan skill, they might afford him the ability to sustain his combat effectiveness for a longer duration. Should his cultivation years begin to wane mid-battle, these pills would serve as a crucial resource, replenishing his spent energies. Unlike his comrades, who also received these pills from the prince, Silaini had not yet found the need to test their limits. No opponent had ever driven him to the edge of his capabilities, necessitating the use of these powerful supplements. Indeed, the smoke unleashed by Nusi was trivial to Silaini; his cultivation level was so elevated that the very act of breathing—or the lack thereof—was inconsequential. Thus, despite being armed with a considerable supply of the pills, courtesy of Armad, they remained unutilized, tucked away in his bag.
Now, as Commander Kisa and Commander Silaini stand on the precipice of their next encounter, a silent battle of wits ensues. Each warrior is locked in a mental chess game, plotting and planning the demise of the other. They know that the conflict ahead will be as much about strategy and endurance as it will be about sheer strength and cultivation power.
As the commanders of the respective armies squared off, the tension of impending combat hung palpably in the air, Armad found himself in a different quarter of the battlefield, his expression marred by a deep frown. He was caught in a strategic conundrum, contemplating the troublesome fact that should the king’s elite legion enter the battle, vanquishing the king’s legion's seasoned armies would become a herculean task. For Armad, securing a victory now hinged on a singular, pivotal act: the elimination of the king’s legion. Yet, the complexity of this challenge plagued him. This was no ordinary force; the legion was a formidable unit, immune to the straightforward slaughter that had felled those kings’ lesser troops.
Heavy with the weight of his thoughts, Armad exhaled a profound sigh, acknowledging the critical juncture at which he stood. He needed to summon every weapon and tactic within his arsenal if he hoped to emerge triumphant from this dire conflict.
Amid his contemplation, an inexplicable phenomenon unfolded; a strange light began to glow from one of the corpses lying adjacent to Armad on the blood-stained earth. It materialized rapidly, a bolt of energy racing toward him. In quick succession, two other beams of light sprang forth from different fallen bodies, each seeking Armad with deadly intent. The trio of ethereal attacks homed in on Armad’s chest, the first striking with such force that it resounded over the clamor of battle, a sonic testament to its power.
Upon witnessing the assault, a subtle smile crept across the faces of the kings. Their plotted machinations extended beyond mere assassination; they sought to cripple Armad’s cultivation, debilitate the very essence of his martial prowess, and condemn him to a fate worse than death. It was a calculated cruelty, born from a desire to exact prolonged suffering upon him before his final breath, without considering the noble blood of Wilberforce that coursed through his veins. With the backing of Prince Ikenga, they were resolute in their decision; Armad would not be granted the mercy of a swift end after the carnage he had inflicted upon their ranks.
Caught off guard by the sudden onslaught, Armad could scarcely afford the luxury of surprise. The initial blast felt as though he had been impaled by an unseen spear, its momentum staggering him backward. As he struggled to regain his balance, the subsequent attacks connected with the flanks of his chest, each delivering a blow that mimicked the agonizing thud of a hammer’s impact.
Before the battle’s outset, Armad had deployed his spiritual sense to envelop the walls of the town, anticipating the possibility of stealthy tactics from his adversaries. Even the corpses in his immediate vicinity had not escaped his vigilance—he had employed his spiritual sense to ensure their lifelessness, well aware of the battlefield tactic of playing dead to spring an ambush.
When his spiritual sense had failed to pick up any signs of cultivation from these bodies, Armad surmised that they must have employed White-Amulets to mask their energies. Such artifacts were notorious for their effectiveness; indeed, cultivators shielded by White Amulets, especially those of level five or ten, became virtually undetectable.
White Amulets served diverse functions: some were designed to conceal one’s cultivation, while others were crafted to restrain demons. An individual utilizing both types of amulets could lay amidst the dead undetected, indistinguishable from corpses unless they revealed themselves through movement.
Armad now realized that these ambushers had likely used White-Amulets to hide their presence, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Yet, an enigma remained—an inconsistency that gnawed at him even amid his ordeal. Despite their use of White-Amulets, his spiritual sense should have picked up the subtle rhythm of their heartbeats. But there was nothing—no hint of life, only the sudden, blinding attack that had connected before he had any chance to evade or defend against it.
The implications were clear: his adversaries had mastered a method of concealment that evaded even his heightened senses. There must be another layer to their subterfuge, a skill or tool he had yet to understand or encounter.